


The Wrong Name

by SandwichesYumYum



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Complete, F/M, For selbyzipper/CitronArrow, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:12:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3259463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandwichesYumYum/pseuds/SandwichesYumYum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth. A small gift for selbyzipper/CitronArrow. Modern AU ramblings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wrong Name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CitronArrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CitronArrow/gifts).



> This is a gift for selbyzipper/CitronArrow, who has been very supportive to so many of us in this fandom and in others; and who wrote something herself this week that was not only extremely timely, from my point of view, but most welcome. Thank you, super awesome lady. :) 
> 
> My thanks to RoseHeart and Nurdles, as ever. You guys simply mean untold amounts to me. All of the biscuits, forever. Even the Bourbons. There. I said it! *Hugs*
> 
> This fic is based on the song 'The Twist' by Frightened Rabbit. It is not necessary to go listen to it, but I really do like it. And yes, I do have a 'Chuck' playlist, for those of you who recognize these musical stylings. I am not ashamed of this! :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own it not.

 

**The Wrong Name**

 

She only ever wears black. Ill-fitting black, for the most part; enormously baggy t-shirts paired with leggings that just about reach to mid-shin on her, or loose, shapeless dresses that fall nearly to her ankles without restricting her movement.

Today it is the latter, a shroud of bleakness that fails, alongside her badly hunched shoulders, to make her small in her seat, or hide the fact that she finds this part of the evening, when people choose their partners to end it, extraordinarily painful.

For his first few weeks coming to this godsforsaken place, he'd thought the cause of her discomfort obvious. To call her plain would be kind. To call her ugly would not be untrue. That nobody dared to ask her for the last dance of the night was hardly a surprise. It had taken Jaime some time, filled with his own blunt rebuffs of requests to join in, to understand that the huge woman who always sat in the same seat and looked at her gently clasping hands as proceedings drew to a close was not doing so out of a sense of slight.

Others here are not avoiding asking her because of her size, or how she looks. They seem to do so out of some idea of propriety, having knowledge of her that he lacks. After all, the prior two hours of practice have seen her easily and happily paired off with everyone from a man who must surely be barrelling towards his eighties to a young, pretty thing, blatantly wanting more than a mere dance from her briefly claimed partner. The woman wearing misery as a mantle is well regarded, even cared for here. These others purposely pay the huge woman no mind as they swirl about with varying degrees of grace, which he has only begun to be aware that she has in abundance herself. And they allow her to retreat into whatever bubble it is she needs to build around her as the evening ends.

There is something within Jaime that niggles at her doing so, wanting to break through and bring her out of it. But then he stares at his arms, sat loose in his lap, and thinks how far he has fallen. Phantom fingers squeeze into a clenched fist at his having come to this. To taking a _dance class_ , in which he is managing to perform fairly poorly without one of his hands or any motivation, a few times a week, to keep himself in shape, as opposed to the more aggressive pursuits he used to indulge in and love so much.

_Damn you and your 'helpful' suggestions, Tyrion._

He lets it go and looks again at the woman sitting a dozen seats away. She appears to be utterly abject, the perfect picture of despair.

_Why should we both be so miserable?_

Before he really knows anything of it, Jaime is up on his feet and standing in front of her. He holds out his arms in unspoken offering, expecting his stump to gain him nothing but short shrift.

Instead, the most astonishing blue eyes peer up at him warily out of a truly unattractive face, which he suddenly seems to forget all about as her fingers fall limply from her own lap, only to grip the metal frame of her chair uncertainly.

It lends steel to him and he does not budge, choosing to nod at her with confidence.

As a result he finds that, within seconds, he is being towered over by the woman in black. There is an oddity in it, though. She must be three or four inches taller than him, despite her plain, flat shoes, but those eyes of hers are gazing down at him with definite vulnerability. She shuffles in her place, tugging nervously at her skirt, which reveals a sliver of her shins.

Jaime smiles. He decided some weeks ago that if her face has little merit, past those brilliant eyes which he has only just taken the care to notice, he really does like seeing her lightly freckled shins, even in the semi-darkness. Overall, her legs may not be particularly womanly, but they have strength and they are damned long.

She goes to brush at the hair stuck to her forehead from her prior exertions, but he loosely grabs her right hand with his left, pulling it out to their sides. The lights are indeed lowered, yet Jaime would swear she blushes at that, but then he cannot speak for himself when she softly wraps her fingers about the heavy scarring on his right forearm and guides it to her waist in response.

The carelessness in it, that his disfigurement doesn't matter, is staggering to him. New. As is the idea that with no previous interaction at all, she has seen him. His weakness.

For his part, he responds without thought; unwilling as he is to admit, even to himself, that his choosing only to take part when steps are being learned, without the need of another, might have been a bit obvious. That his standing aloof from everyone else, stubbornly ignoring the interactions of others, is as clear as if he'd had the words 'maimed and rejected by lover' tattooed onto his forehead. So he pulls her firmly against him, not quite hip to hip, but as close as they can be, given her height. She makes the quietest sound of surprise at that, one Jaime can only describe as an 'eep'.

He grins up at her then, for just a beat, before he spins them both away into the mass of folk, young and old, who always seem to enjoy the small tradition that is this last dance. As has happened during his every visit, the imperious old lady who holds these classes stands there waving a rose by the stem, as if conducting an orchestra herself, smiling fondly at her varied charges as dry ice weakly billows from the small machine hissing in the corner, if only for this portion of the night. Jaime's sudden movement is only met with a moment of resistance, one borne of surprise more than anything. As their odd pairing flows across the worn parquet flooring, he knows he is tense, expecting crushed toes and banging knees. Though he has some skills in it, the gods know he has only ever danced little, even more rarely with the one he had always longed to.

Yet the mistakes don't come. The woman in black is even better than he'd thought, all of her vast body responding to the lightest adjustments in pressure on her thick waist from a handless arm, and Jaime can feel her legs do no more than brush against his while they settle into the slower, statelier sort of progression which ever seems to suit those who do not know one another well. A loose tie at the back of her dress flicks almost half-heartedly against his stump every time they make a turn, and he is swiftly lulled into noticing only that until it doesn't happen.

He is only a step away when feels the change, just before his fingers tug awkwardly at hers. She has come to a full stop. He moves back in immediately, finding his vision full what has been sat slap bang in front of eyes since she stood up. Thick lips, chapped and split in places, having been tried to soreness by her protruding teeth in her unhappiness, tremor in distress.

_Too thick. Too expressive._

That last thought catches him off-guard, so he barely hears the name 'Renly' breathed longingly out into the air, followed by her looking away. Jaime experiences a moment of fear, for he is no good with anybody who is deeply upset, only to have that morph into a lightning strike of scorn at his own idiocy.

_Of course she is wearing black. She is in mourning._

His self-approbation doesn't last long, as the fear roars back, because if she is so, he doesn't want this to mean too much. No matter that she is grieving. No matter that she is the first person to willingly touch his maimed arm without any revulsion since the medical personnel in the military hospital. No matter that he hasn't even shared his name, let alone danced with anyone else since he started coming here. No matter that he has always seen her reject this portion of the class, wanting to be alone with her remembrances.

_It doesn't mean a thing. It's just a dance._

Jaime decides to simply wait, ignoring everything except the feel of their clasping, sweat-slicked hands, though whose sweat it is he cannot tell. Nor does he care, just a few languid seconds which flow past them like treacle enough make to him sure that he had needed this as much as he'd wanted to help the woman in his arms. The simple heat of her palm and the brush of a short, well-kept nail over his knuckles has been something he has missed, perhaps longed for, without even knowing about it.

Large lips swing back into his line of vision and he glances up. Though she has not wept, the woman's eyes shine like glass with tears unshed, pools of great sadness, barely tamed. Still, she smiles at him, though at best it is a watery, weak attempt at one. Her left hand drops from his shoulder to his touch his stump once more. She caresses it in silent thanks, the callused pads of her fingers rough, but painless in their passing over puckered, red skin. With a guileless delicacy, in fact, that he has never encountered at all, has never allowed himself to dream of experiencing. There is a moment of confusion in Jaime that he should find it here, with this great beast of a woman, instead of with the one he loved for his whole life. And lost.

The hurt is sharp within him and it his turn to look anywhere else. His turn to say the wrong name.

 

 

He glances away suddenly, a word, a name Brienne believes, spilling roughly from him. It isn't hers, but then how could it be? He hasn't asked for it and it hardly matters. She doesn't let go of the stunted forearm pressed into her side, as willing to wait for him as he was for her.

That he did at all had shocked her. She expected him to make his excuses and leave her, just as soon as he could. This first last dance since Renly hadn't taken long to shake her to the core, though she doesn't know just how many of the tears she fought to keep back were wholly for her dearest, most beloved friend, and how many were formed in anger at herself, for betraying his memory. Yet it hadn't made any difference to this man, staggeringly beautiful despite his wearing old sportswear and not having shaved for an indeterminate amount of time. Or perhaps even washed. She looks at his hair, lankly shoved behind his ears as it is.

_How can greasy hair still look golden?_

He comes back to her then, a self-deprecating smile on his perfectly formed face, but it is not enough to cover his pain. He seems to know it too, just as Brienne knows that she is unable to fully hide her own, thoughts of Renly always so close they cut. For a few drumming heartbeats, they stand alone in a room swirling with souls, both of them riddled with past wounds, openly bleeding their hurts into imaginary pools on the floor, about their feet. Were they real, they would be obscured by the thin dry mist wafting around their ankles. As things are, they are seen only by themselves.

But then Brienne can stand it no more, not wanting to dwell on what is gone, only on the sensation of what is now. She squeezes the hand holding hers reassuringly, even if it is for them both. She tells herself that she cares little who he wishes she were. The room is dark enough for her to be anybody he wants, at least for a the space of a dance. She cannot make herself beautiful, yet she is quick enough to be able to part from him when the lights come up again at the end and to be herself again. To spare him the true, close-up sight of her and herself the indignity of being publicly recognized as a poor substitute for whatever beauty clouds his mind at night.

A wide, rough thumb brushes against hers. And Brienne acts, unplanned. She takes a _risk_.

He almost jumps as she steps into _him_ , not wanting to wait to feel the heat in shared movement, for what little time remains to them. His reactions are lightning fast, and he takes to being led himself with nothing more that the flicker of an eyebrow that looks distinguished, in spite of his current state, and a rumble of low laughter that rattles against her ribs. It gives her pause and she goes to pull away some, knowing that a frame as manly as her own can be wanted near by no-one, but instead finds an empty wrist keeping her close, her partner using the opportunity to take control back from her, moving them through a deft quarter-turn and regaining the lead too.

She finds the adjustment unnervingly natural and smooth, her reactions to the subtlest of changes in his posture, to the sliding of his legs against her own, too easy. She pushes away the traitorous thought that this dance is more comfortable than any ever were with Renly, though it is true, choosing instead to look narrowly into bright, green eyes with a hint of challenge.

One that she can see is immediately accepted, even teeth flashing as his laughter begins again.

So it turns into a battle, of sorts, though one featuring no real force on either of their parts. The control of their dance flickers back and forth between them, at first with an almost uncontained sense of victory as one seizes it from the other. Somehow, they hold their form with each change, and as the minutes pass something else changes as well.

What starts as a graceful fight for control becomes a willingness, even an eagerness in both, to accept the opposite. Each brief period when one is led is a small act of trust, every one greater and longer than the last, each of them allowing the other to carry them both forward for a spell, before a nudge or the gentlest alteration of touch cedes control once more.

They twist and flow around each other with such ease as she has never known. There is comfort in it for her. For him as well, Brienne thinks, the relative darkness granting her the freedom to think that she and this stranger are very much alike in some ways. It seems to her that he is as lonely as she is and there is no way that they could be dancing together so effortlessly if he were not enjoying the simple feel of another moving next to him.

Yet even as these thoughts form and gain traction, then finding a steadiness in her mind, such fanciful musings slam to a dead stop, along with the music. Brienne wants to thank her partner in the polite way, but the main lights rise too soon and she has somewhere else, anywhere else to be, for the sakes of them both.

 

 

She makes to pull away nearly as soon as the music stops, but Jaime doesn't let go of her hand. He has no doubt she is strong enough to free herself if she wishes to, but instead of doing so, she drops her head, appearing to fold in upon herself again. He leans in a little and lifts his stump in between them; a quiet offer to escort her back to her seat. "It's what everyone else is doing," he tells her.

Her bright, _very_ bright, blue gaze flashes up to his own and she stares at him with open curiosity. It takes him a second to realize that she may well never have heard him speak until now. He might have felt a real connection while they moved together, but she does not know him quite as well as he would like her to, he thinks.

He doesn't mention that, raising his elbow further. Long fingers curl around it, quelling the thought that now the dance has finished, she'd not want to. "Thank you," she says, and even if he _has_ heard her voice, it is very different when she is close. There is a clarity and warmth to it, and Jaime lets it ring through him as he walks her back over to where her belongings are neatly arranged.

She sits and looks up at him, placidly, though much is hidden and he sees it. He spends just a moment considering that she might be younger than he'd known, before coming to understand there is one formality they've overlooked.

If he cannot mind her using the wrong name tonight, he would have her know his. He would know hers, if she will give it. 

"I'm Jaime," he tells her, and waits for an acknowledgement of it.

_Please._

It is slow in coming, her mouth moving as if she is tasting the word, before she repeats it. "Jaime," she nods, only then to hold out her left hand to shake his, like they have just been discussing targets in a dreadful business meeting. "I'm Brienne," she finishes, with the utmost seriousness.

He takes her proffered hand and instead of shaking it, bows as formally as his long-lost childhood training allows, pressing his lips to her knuckles. It is a mistake, as freckled skin is torn from his grip. "Do not toy with me," Brienne protests, her eyes wounded.

Jaime shoots upright, his tone deadly serious. "I wasn't."

They do nothing less than glare at each other for upwards of half a minute, distrust making an unmerry war with the expectation of it. In the end, Jaime takes a seat at Brienne's side, unwilling to be put under such a microscope. There is pain in him at being thought of so, albeit that hers is more blatant.

_What the hells happened to you?_

The awkwardness passes more quickly than it might have done; Brienne glancing at him apologetically after a tiny delay, which he returns as the stragglers leave the dancefloor. However, they don't talk again until the young lady Brienne had danced with earlier flies into the arms of Olenna, snatching her rose from her fingers and waving it delightedly in their direction.

There is an unhappy, low groan at Jaime's side. "I take it your friend is going to start badgering you about this?" he asks.

"Probably before you leave the _building_ ," Brienne sighs, frowning down at her large feet.

Again, they are silent, and Jaime struggles to find anything of which to speak. "Renly," he eventually says, taking them both by surprise. Not a question. Just the name.

Brienne looks at him sharply, though her tone is soft when it comes. "He...he was my friend. He use to dance with me here. He died." Jaime lifts his stump and goes to pat her arm consolingly, but it seems too small a gesture for what is plainly an overwhelming grief, so he lets it fall between them. _Useless_.

It is noted and Brienne shifts in her seat until their knees almost touch. "You said a name too."

Jaime huffs at that, bringing his empty wrist upwards again, only to bounce it on his knee with a nervous bitterness, uncertain that he should say anything at all. But blue eyes, steady and calm, tell him he can. "The only woman I ever loved."

If Brienne is shocked, she doesn't show it. _"Loved?"_

"Yes," Jaime smiles at her skepticism. " _Past_ tense."

She almost lets a snort loose at that, though it is supressed to the point of being a strangled sort of hiccup. "Not quite, I think."

He reaches across and prods at her knee with his forefinger. "Nor for you. I'm getting there." _Maybe you can too._ "Will you be here next time, Brienne?"

She starts meshing her fingers as she did earlier, a knotty dance of their own, but one made of nothing good. "Yes, Jaime. I'm here most days," she says.

"Then I'll be here tomorrow evening, if that's alright?" It is a tentative overture at best and Brienne stills, considering it with what Jaime is beginning to think is a customarily large amount of gravitas, if unusual in one so young. He nonetheless finds himself hanging on her answer and he knows why, though he is loathe to admit it. He thinks of the heat in their hands alone, as they were pressed together.

_I want to dance with you again, Brienne. I think I need to. Is it something you need too?_

"I think it is," Brienne says, answering his thoughts and his words.

"Good," Jaime says, rising to his feet, that confirmation enough to bring good humour back to him, "because the sooner we put an end to this raven based fancy-dress issue you have going on, the better."

That startles her. "But I -"

"You're allowed to mourn, Brienne," Jaime insists. "But try doing it in blue. It'll match your eyes. I don't know if anybody's ever told you, but they _are_ beautiful." That truth let out, Jaime promptly makes his way over to his battered leather satchel, dropping the shoulder strap over his head and shrugging to settle it into place. _Then_ he looks at her again. His erstwhile dance partner is gawping over at him stupidly.

_How can that be adorable? I'm half-expecting some cud to drop out of her mouth._

He waves at her, in a fashion as friendly as a man can with a mass of scarring, whilst he picks up his empty water bottle and makes his way to the exit, dropping the pale blue plastic on top of the heavily overburdened, green recycling bin just by it. He pulls on the heavy handle of the fire door leading to the stairs that go down to street level, only to turn back when a high-pitched shriek erupts from the general place where he left Brienne.

What he sees there confirms what he had suspected. She is now stood bolt upright, rigid as a board as her brown-haired and much smaller friend collides with her, all hugs and enthusiasm.

_She dances as ably as anyone I've ever known, but is otherwise unused to being touched._

Brienne stares at him in alarm whilst the woman wrapping an arm tightly about her thick torso uses her free hand to flick at the screen of her florally decorated phone. She apparently has to tell 'everybody she has ever met' about this important development, her excitement described most loudly and effusively.

'Extra super very?' Jaime mouths at Brienne, who simply looks back at him helplessly.

'Stay,' she pleads over elegant curls, equally silently, though those thick lips are twitching into the semblance of a smile, even as she tries and fails to remove her friend's arm from her body. It wriggles out of her grip, eel-like, to maintain a firm hold on her.

Jaime shakes his head with a slow grin and then salutes his captured comrade jauntily, albeit that it is an empty one, for the fingers which used to brush his eyebrow were left to rot on a far-off battlefield, in another lifetime. And he leaves. It may not be the most gentlemanly thing to do, he thinks as his softly shod feet shush over the rough, anti-slip treads on the edges of the steps. But somehow he thinks his returning to Brienne may not have done much to make her friend less resolute in her determination to spill her news.

Jaime hopes Brienne can forgive him this less than cruel abandonment, and that she will choose to be here for the next class. He makes his way out onto the street, standing in the drizzle in the light of the neon sign for the Wing-Wah Fish Bar, looking up at the glow emanating from the windows of the studio above it.

_Please come along tomorrow night, Brienne. We dance together very well._


End file.
